


He Was The Rain

by likeseriouslyalyx



Series: Viclock Oneshots [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angsty angsty angst, Grief, I can't stop writing angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, Oneshot, Pain, Sad, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Viclock, Victor was a spy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 13:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11185695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeseriouslyalyx/pseuds/likeseriouslyalyx
Summary: Sherlock reminisces on Victor after he receives a letter giving notice of his death.





	He Was The Rain

Tonight, Sherlock thinks he can see Victor’s face in the flames. He presses his fingers together till they turn white up to the first knuckle, and lets that throaty laugh he knows so well echo through the crackling fire. He holds his hands out, pressing them so close to the heat that he can almost feel the same warmth behind him, then makes the mistake of leaning back, seeking assurances that his illusion can’t bring him, and it breaks under the pressure.

At first he thinks the rain is an illusion as well. Victor has always been rain; incessant, beautiful, cleansing. They first fell together in a small room with an iron roof, rain drowning out any sound, encompassing them, swallowing them, soaking them with the passion of first love. But the rain that batters the roof now is no conjuring of Sherlock’s imagination, only a catalyst for memories that singe the line between nostalgia and pain.

Because Victor is everywhere. The window that never shuts properly lets in the blustering storm, and Sherlock swears he can smell, almost taste the man in the wind.

He closes his eyes because his mind is telling him Victor is beside him, that if he would just turn and look he would see that smile, one corner of the mouth turning up slightly more than the other. That his eyes would meet turbulent green ones. That he could touch, and feel, and be enveloped by Victor, and he slams his fist onto the coffee table hard enough to send his cup clattering to the floor because he can’t and he’ll never be able to hold or be held again and god, he feels as though his body is crumpling, crushing in on itself.

He thinks maybe this might kill him. He thinks, maybe he’d like it to, and it is that thought that gives voice to his cries, that sends tears staining the white envelope in his lap in time with the rain, because Victor would’ve wanted him to live, but what does it matter now, because Victor is gone.

Victor is gone, and all that remains of the man he loves is this piece of paper, watermarked with the Secret Service logo. Sherlock hasn’t read past the first sentence; ‘We offer our sincerest condolences in bringing you notice of the death of-’.

He doesn’t want condolences. He doesn’t want senseless platitudes sent in an automated letter by people who never knew Victor as he was. He couldn’t care less that they would miss his service, because what did they know of real missing? The kind that cut a hole in you that could never be filled in?

Sherlock coughs out a sob, pressing his lips to Victor’s name in farewell before tossing the paper to the flames which throw themselves at this new offering and then devour it as though it is nothing, which Sherlock supposes it is.

No piece of parchment could sum up Sherlock’s Victor. The unpredictable man who shared Sherlock’s own intelligence, yet instead of isolating himself, could endear people to him with only a smile. Victor was as taciturn as a storm, yet remained the only constant in Sherlock’s life. He was a devout Christian, yet worshipped his lovers body as reverently as he prayed before his God. Sherlock could only guess at how many had died by Victor’s own hand, yet those hands have never been anything but gentle on Sherlock’s body. They were a mess of contradictions and passion, two halves of one person, and now Sherlock wondered, how could one survive without half of themselves?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry... This just happened, it was an accident I swear


End file.
